


Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #5

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:09:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: by Palladia, Ysanne, bookmom





	Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #5

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

 

CIMWC #5

**Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #5**

* * *

**Head Games by Palladia**   
Heads Up by Ysanne   
Take Two Tablets.... by bookmom 

* * *

**Head Games  
by Palladia**

"Not tonight, dear. I have a headache." Amanda managed a pretty little pout. 

"You have a _what?_ " Duncan stared at her incredulously. 

"A headache." 

"Amanda. We don't _get_ headaches." 

"Whatever are you talking about? I get one every time you walk into the room. And right now, I have a splitting headache, and I want to go to bed. Alone." 

"Fine. Go back to your apartment." 

"But it's too far to walk, and I don't have money for a taxi." 

Without a word, Duncan pulled out his wallet, separated a twenty from the other bills and handed it to her. 

"What about the tip?" 

"I have, on occasion, taken a taxi from here to your place. The meter reads fifteen dollars. A five dollar tip is generous." 

"Well, but. . . I wanted to go shopping." 

"So, go." Five minutes ago, Duncan had been thinking thoughts of hot venery. Now he was considering cold steel. He reached over and snatched the bill from her fingers. Her eyes widened. 

"You've got a headache. I'll tell you what. I have a backache. I couldn't possibly manage any sort of activity tonight. How you get home, and what you do on the way is not my problem. And the next time you have the urge, there will be a stud fee." 

"A _what?_ " 

"You heard me. That, or pick of the litter." He smiled at her coolly. 

"The litter? The _litter?_ What, exactly, are you calling me?" 

"Don't forget your leash when you leave." 

The freight elevator door bounced when it hit bottom, and the whole thing sank out of sight. The door of the dojo slammed audibly. Duncan sat down to read the paper. The loft was dark except for the light over his chair. 

It was nearly two hours later when the elevator came back upstairs. 

Amanda wore a fur coat, a rhinestone choker with a little silver leash attached, and nothing else. She had a hundred-dollar bill folded into an accordion between her fingers. 

"I understand that I can get laid for a hundred bucks," she purred. The coat slipped to the floor and she stepped into the circle of light by his chair. 

Duncan carefully laid the paper aside, stood, picked up the coat to spread on the floor, fur side up. He took the folded bill, held it to the light, checked its markings. 

"Here, kitty, kitty," he grinned. 

* * *

**Heads Up  
by Ysanne**

Headache: not something Duncan usually had to worry about, being Immortal. He lay tangled in his 350-thread Egyptian cotton sheets pondering what might have changed this. At least a small, cringing portion of his brain pondered, while the rest was apparently being used as a bass drum. Or perhaps a wee, hammer-wielding blacksmith was actually using those anvil-shaped bones in his ears to craft miniscule horseshoes. He squinted his eyes open, groaning as bright light stabbed a sharp counterpoint through his throbbing head. 

'Igor! It's aliiiiive!' shouted a very loud voice with a very bad Transylvanian accent. 

Duncan groaned again in protest, finding himself unable to form actual words. 

' **GOOD** morning, mine host,' trilled the same person as he shattered Duncan's good dishes with a pair of cymbals, or at least that's how the Highlander translated the noise emanating from the kitchen. 

Duncan groped for a pillow without moving his head and pulled it over his face while the power of speech gradually returned to him. When he felt the use of language had gelled in his abused brain he lifted the bottom half of the pillow and bellowed, 'Shut up, you sadist!' 

The agony in his head increased alarmingly after his short speech. Duncan rolled into a fetal position, moaning and clutching his hair until the pain subsided into the now-familiar deep, dull throb. His lips moved silently, forming old Gaelic curses and several he had heard on cable television. 

'Something wrong?' asked Methos cheerily, sans Transylvania and very much closer now. 

'My head,' whispered Duncan cautiously. 

'Headache, eh? I'm not surprised. Here, try this.' 

A delicious aroma of expensive, freshly ground and freshly brewed coffee wafted over him, and Duncan breathed it in experimentally. He turned over slowly, keeping one hand firmly on top of his head in case it exploded. With a Herculean effort he pulled himself up into a semi-sitting position and reached blindly for the mug that Methos was holding out to him. With his eyes closed he sipped the hot brew and sighed in relief. He was feeling marginally better as he drained the mug, and tried opening his eyes. A bright-eyed, amused five thousand year old man was grinning at him from across the room. 

Taking it slowly, the Highlander struggled out of bed, swathed himself clumsily in a big white robe, and tottered to the bathroom. Belatedly he wondered how he had ended up in only briefs, socks and a pink chiffon scarf knotted around his throat, but dismissed the thought. He really didn't want to know. He lifted the lid of the toilet, then... 

' **Aaiiee!** ' 

'It's just a _temporary_ tattoo, MacLeod,' called Methos, muffling the laughter that had him leaning on the stove for support. 

The bathroom door opened and Duncan lurched into the room to fall heavily onto the sofa. 

'I'm going to kill her,' he said grimly. 

'Is it all coming back to you yet?' Methos asked, hiding his grin behind a piece of buttered toast. 

'Guess not,' Duncan replied, 'so why don't you remind me? And what have you done with Amanda, come to think of it?' 

'Dear Amanda,' smiled Methos fondly. 'She's quite a girl, you know? Said to tell you that she'd be back after she hits the shops.' 

'To hit me with the bills, I suppose,' grumbled Duncan. 'But back to the explanation, Methos. Why do I feel like I've just come back from a very nasty death, and more importantly, why am I....decorated?' 

'Joe's bar,' Methos hinted, 'Amanda's original mixed drinks. No limit on the ingredients. I recall you bragging about Scots and how they can hold their liquor...' 

'Oh god,' moaned Duncan, sagging back against the sofa cushions, 'I let Amanda mix my drinks. I was doing okay until the Pan-galactic Gargle Blaster, though, wasn't I?' 

'Well, you remained upright until that one, anyway. She wouldn't tell me what was in it, just made me promise to drive you home and play guard dog. Anyone ever mention your lack of singing ability? You positively mangled 'Scotland the Brave' all the way home.' 

Duncan turned an offended expression upon his friend, getting only a raised eyebrow and a sly 'woof ' in response. 

'Okay, okay. Thanks, Fido. This all comes of dating older women. But I suppose that's not something you have a lot of experience with.' 

'Not for the past few centuries,' agreed his companion, refilling their mugs. 'You'll live a lot longer if you 'just say no' to wily, buxom barmaids, you know. Oh, wait -- you'd better buy a cemetery plot right now.' 

'Ha, ha,' said Duncan, glowering. 'Ow. Never mind, I can't be angry because it hurts to frown. Now about this, this...what **is** this?' he demanded, gesturing vaguely at his lap. 

'It's supposed to be a Watcher tattoo, but Amanda said it wasn't easy copying it onto a....um, a cylinder.' 

Duncan stared at him, agog. 'Copying it with what?' 

'Indelible magic marker.' 

'Methos!' 

'Well, you thought it was a good idea at the time, MacLeod. All of us did, even Joe.' 

'Joe?!' 

'You don't imagine we'd leave Joe out of the fun, do you? It was his marker, after all.' 

'I'm going to kill her.' 

'Yes, so you said. Well, here she comes, so shall I fetch your katana?' 

Both men stilled, then their heads swiveled towards the door. A moment later a pair of long, slim legs came into view, bracketed by shopping bags, and then Amanda transformed the barge. The two males watched in fascination as she gradually shed coat, hat, bags, purse, sword, gloves, high heels and various pieces of jewelry from one end of the barge to the other, keeping up a lively commentary on her shopping adventure. She finally settled next to Duncan like a graceful, colorful bird folding its wings and studied him closely. 

'MacLeod, you look terrible,' she commented, pushing his hair back from his forehead. 

'I wonder why,' he said peevishly. 'Amanda, what the hell were you trying to do to me?' 

'Just helping you live up to your image, darling. Pink's not really your color, you know,' she added, fluffing the chiffon scarf. 

'Never mind that,' he said, batting her hands away, 'just tell me that you have a way to remove this....faux tattoo.' 

'I think you'd better just let it wear off. Unless you _like_ the feel of healing energy down there. Do you?' 

Duncan was looking rather pale. He shook his head in a decidedly negative answer. Amanda patted his arm approvingly. 

'Good answer, MacLeod,' Methos interjected. 'How's the headache now?' 

'Vile.' 

Methos noted the beginnings of a pout on the Highlander's visage and took it as a hint. He had wrung all the fun that he could out of this morning anyway. He began shrugging into his coat, winking at Amanda. She walked him to the door. 

'Bye, Mac,' he called, getting a weak wave in return. 'How long before you tell him it comes off with soap and water?' he asked Amanda quietly. 

'Oh, by the time I get him into the shower he will have forgotten all about the tattoo and his headache too,' she whispered, smiling confidently. 

'I'll leave you to it, then. Bye, Amanda. Be sure and call the next time you want to torture a Scotsman.' 

* * *

**Take Two Tablets....  
by bookmom**

Duncan cursed again at the platitudes coming out of his phone. 'Thank you for calling American Customs. All our operators are busy at the moment. Your call is important to us. Please do not hang up. Your call has been placed in line and will be answered as soon as possible.' Cheery muzak replaced the now grating cheery voice. 

He dearly wanted to slam the phone down. In his mind's eye, he could see it smashing into a thousand pieces. Duncan settled for yet another glance at his pocket watch. Putting the paring knife down, he slipped a hand into his jeans pocket. Not finding it, he frowned in confusion. It should be there. Hadn't he just looked at it what, 10, 15 minutes ago? 

He scanned the counter in front of him. A myriad of coloured veggies littered the chopping board. Two knives, half a glass of crisp white wine, salad dressing and a huge bowl of rotini - no watch. He turned away from the counter, eyes searching the loft. 

'Where did I put the damned ...' he started to mutter under his breath, when the muzak stopped. The silence was considerable but he expected that stupid voice to start up any time. 'It couldn't be my turn yet. I haven't waited the prerequisite eternity,' he thought sarcastically. There were a few clicks then silence again. 

'Ah, finally,' he thought and took a deep breath in readiness. 

'Thank you for calling American Customs. All our operators are busy at the moment. Your call is important to us. Please do not hang up. Your call has been placed in line and will be answered as soon as possible.' 

Duncan held the phone at arm's length. 'No, not again!' he shouted. If an Immortal were to get a headache, now would be the time. 

'Damn you, Amanda!' Duncan's voice reverberated off the stone walls. 

If he'd been able to pack in relative peace, then maybe he wouldn't be in this situation. Duncan shook his head disgustedly. He'd fallen for Amanda's magic fingers once again. She hadn't wanted him to leave. Yes, they'd been enjoying a fun - filled holiday at her villa in Greece, but that rare painted urn he was after had finally turned up at auction and he wasn't going to miss out on the bidding. And so Amanda had used every delightful, deceitful, sinful trick she knew to keep him from going. He hadn't succumbed to her ministrations; he'd just gotten a little ... distracted. And that had cost him his katana. 

Duncan pounded the back of the leather sofa with one large fisted hand. He'd been more interested in getting out the door before Amanda broke his resolve than in checking to make sure everything was packed in its proper place. For some reason, the katana was still in his light overcoat and he'd walked right through the security check at the airport totally oblivious. He could still hear the klaxon screaming. 

The primary search turned up his katana. It was the thought of the secondary search that made him shudder. He cursed Amanda again, this time in Arabic. He'd picked that one up from Methos. 

Even with all his paperwork, the empty sword case and the documented fact that he travelled extensively with his sword, they'd kept him for questioning and confiscated the one thing that mattered the most. Sure he had other swords, but he felt naked without the katana. To top it off, they detained him overnight and he'd missed the auction. 

The sickly sweet sounds of 'Rain Drops Keep Fallin' On My Head,' played on a midi interrupted his internal tirade and he began to look for his pocket watch again. 

So now he was reduced to being held hostage by the very technology that had been such a wonder all those years ago; technology he'd thought was so brilliant. He growled and fragments of splintered phone flashed before his eyes. No, not yet. He'd take his frustration out on a certain light - fingered seductress. 

The sun glinted off something metallic and Duncan hurried over. Yes! Now he remembered. He'd put it on the bed. Scooping up the watch, Duncan read the time and was dismayed to see that a full half - hour had passed. 

Couldn't they just let him fill out the paperwork again? Did he have to go through this rigmarole of giving the information over the phone again, then waiting in line at the Customs Office again, then signing said already given information and showing physical evidence of said already given information? Which incompetent ding - dong lost his paperwork in the first place? He was sorely tempted to take their head if he ever found out. If, that is, if he ever got his precious katana back. 

He rubbed his temple. Maybe he was getting a headache. 

Duncan walked back to the kitchen to finish off the pasta salad. He heard the elevator start on its way down and wondered if Joe was paying him a call. The annoying cheery voice was spouting its schpiel again. He shrugged his shoulders up and down a few times, then stretched. It wasn't very comfortable chopping and holding the phone at the same time. 

Immortal presence washed over him and Duncan moved his broadsword to within easy reaching distance. Amanda's cheery voice floated up the shaft. 'It's just me, MacLeod.' 

He didn't feel cheery, and if Amanda thought she was staying, well, he had other ideas. 

She lifted the gate and dropped her luggage by the armoire. Duncan's broad back was inviting and Amanda couldn't resist. 

She ran her hands up his back to squeeze muscular shoulders. 'Mmm, pasta salad with your famous home-made dressing,' Amanda said peering over. 

Duncan silently went about cutting the cherry tomatoes into mini crowns. 

'What's up, MacLeod?' Amanda whispered in his ear. 'I know we parted rather quickly the other day, but I thought we could finish where we left off.' Amanda let her hands slide down his biceps to rest on thick forearms. 

The softer parts of Amanda's anatomy pressed inbetween Duncan's shoulder blades and she wrapped her arms around his chest. 

'What's wrong, Duncan?' she asked; now thoroughly perplexed. 'Did you get the urn?' 

'No,' he answered tersely. 

'Who are you talking to?' Amanda tried to take the phone from him. 'Whomever it is, you can call them back later. This is more important.' 

Duncan turned quickly, the huge chopping knife replacing the paring knife in a blink of an eye. 'Don't tell me what's more important, Amanda.' 

She took a step back and noticed the broadsword. 'Where's your katana?' 

Duncan growled, 'That's why I'm on the phone. So if you don't mind, take your things and go.' He turned around and emptied the tomatoes into the bowl. 

'No urn, no katana. Sounds like you're having a bad day, MacLeod. Maybe I can make it better.' She stepped up behind him and ran her hands up to his shoulders again. 'You seem pretty tense, I'll just release some of that for you.' Amanda was careful not to jiggle the precariously balanced phone as she massaged out some of the knots. 

Duncan growled, 'I'm not tense,' and half-heartedly shrugged her hands off. 'Go away.' 

'So tell me just where is your katana?' Amanda renewed her efforts. 

Strong fingers moved to the base of his neck and Duncan found himself holding the phone with one hand. He let out a small sigh as they moved upward. Suddenly he found the muzak not quite so irritating. 

'Customs.' 

Anger flooded him again and he tried to face her. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and her thumbs dug deeply. He groaned. Duncan dropped the arm that was holding the phone to his side as Amanda's fingers once again worked their magic. 

'Here, MacLeod, let me take that for you. I'll put it on the speaker phone.' Amanda gently pried the phone from now boneless fingers. 

Very faintly Duncan heard a real male voice. 'Customs. Hello, Stephen Leach, speaking. How may I help you?' 

'Amanda, I've finally gotten through.' He lunged for the phone. 

Their fingers collided and someone depressed the end button. 

'Amanda!' Duncan screamed. He reached for the broadsword as a heavy throbbing pain settled itself inbetween his eyes. 

* * *

Home 


End file.
